


pull me through (got so much to lose)

by wayonwayout



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Fix-It, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9799193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayonwayout/pseuds/wayonwayout
Summary: After, Archie calls Jughead. This was both a good and a terrible decision. Jughead has always known the absolute worst thing to say, and he's never shied away from saying it.(Or: a necessary conversation finally happens, and Jughead gets a full night's sleep for once.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is so, SO self-indulgent, but I drank some wine last night and committed to it. I hated every minute of this storyline except the last one, I'm genuinely shocked they ended on a note of "this teacher might actually be bad and dangerous!" (and what a low fucking bar that is), and I'm thrilled it's over. Probably. Who am I kidding, they're going to bring her back. 
> 
> Anyway, I hate Ms. Grundy, I love these kids, here are some words about it. This isn't _necessarily_ a continuation of my last fic ([and the shot goes (never get you back)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9668111)) but it does fit tidily sometime before the final scene. which makes sense, because they build off pretty much the same headcanons. anyway. 
> 
> Warnings: csa, aftermath of sexual abuse, teacher/student relationship, inexplicit mentions of parental abuse, mentions of spousal abuse.

 

“She had a husband,” Archie says, late at night. He hasn’t spoken in over an hour; Jughead had thought he was asleep. “He… hurt her. Beat her and stuff.”

Jughead stares down at his fingers, white in the low light of his laptop. He knows he shouldn’t say it, but -- that’s kind of his M.O. His _raison d’etre_ is to say the things other people won’t. So he sighs, and curls his hands into fists, and says, “I don’t care.”

There’s silence from behind him.

“I don’t care what happened to her,” he clarifies.

He can hear it -- how Archie tries so hard to steady his breathing, to keep his cool. How he loses that battle, and shoves the blankets off of himself, pushes himself up to sitting. Stares a hole into the back of Jughead’s skull. Jughead can’t hear that last part, obviously, but he knows it’s happening.

Even after all this time, he knows Archie too well.

“You’d think you’d go a little easier on me in _my house_ ,” Archie says.

“You invited me. And when have I ever gone easy on you?”

“Not recently, that’s for damn sure.”

Jughead’s nails bite into his palms. “I’m here, aren’t I? Like we’re ten years old again. Buddy buddy sleepover times. If I were at Pop’s someone would be bringing me a burger right now.”

“No one’s keeping you here.”

“You _invited me_.”

Begged, is more like -- called him after midnight, his voice all crazy, _can we meet in your treehouse, at Pop’s, behind the bowling alley like old times,_ until Jughead talked him down. And he didn't want to think for too long about how, after two months of silence and just a week of friendship, he still knows exactly how to do that. When Archie’s head gets in a frenzy, like it does sometimes, no one else ever seems to notice, but Jughead’s always seen Archie a little differently than everyone else.

 _Listen,_ he’d said, _this is all very clandestine, and I’m into that as a rule, but maybe not on a school night? My attendance record is a lost cause, but let’s not martyr yours for the sake of my aesthetic._

 _Fuck school,_ Archie had replied. _Jug, let’s -- I’ll drive to yours, we’ll -- we’ll hit the road, tonight, before anyone can stop us. You and me. We can fix everything, Juggie --_

And that was when he’d known something was really wrong.

He shouldn’t have bothered. They’re both strung too tight tonight -- if they’re just going to _pick_ at each other like this --

“Maybe that was a mistake," Archie snaps. "But I guess I thought you’d have more sympathy, given _your_ \--”

Jughead swings around in his chair and Archie shuts up _fast_. There’s a cold feeling in Jughead’s chest, behind his sternum, like opening a door in the dead of winter, the way a house can be emptied of warmth in a single moment. He doesn’t know what’s on his face, but whatever it is seems to steal all the words away from Archie, if not the anger. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Given my _what_ , Arch?” he says, finally. Deliberately. 

Archie, to his credit, doesn’t play coy. “You know what I was going to say.”

It’s too close in the room. The dark makes it feel like the walls aren’t even there; like all that exists is the bed, the chair, and the light from off the street, cast in rays on Archie’s face from between the blinds.

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “So let me tell you, pal, from the bottom of my heart and every wretched second of the _what_ you’ve chosen to bring up on this fine night: I don’t give a _shit_ what happened to her.”

He almost thinks Archie’s going to throw a punch at him. Then every part of Archie goes slack. He runs a hand through his hair, then fists it, tugging at the roots. He looks like he’s going to cry.

Jughead finds himself standing up. “Stop that,” he says, taking Archie’s hand and pulling it flat to the mattress between them as he sits down.

“It’s just -- it’s all so confusing, and -- ” Archie whispers. “Everyone acts like it’s such a bad thing, but no one will tell me if _I’m_ the problem. I can’t fix it if I don’t know.”

“You’re not the problem.”

“I usually am,” Archie says. His face crumples. “Jug…”

It feels like Jughead’s chest is cracking open. Thumbscrews would hurt less than this. He holds Archie’s hand tighter, rubbing his thumb across Archie’s knuckles, and says, again, “You’re not the problem.”

“Betty’s mom --”

“Betty’s mom is a fucking batshit weirdo. And I’m the local authority on being a batshit weirdo, so I would know.”

“Don’t say that,” Archie mutters. He wipes at his face.

“Which part?”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“I wear it as a badge of honour,” Jughead says. “I was never a boy scout, so this is the best I’ve got.”

Archie hiccups a laugh, still too quiet.

Jughead knows a lot of things, in the sense that he reads a lot of books, watches a lot of movies, and pays attention to the small things in life. He asks the questions people wish he wouldn’t and waits to see what happens. He knows a lot of things, and that’s what’s going to keep him alive in this snakepit -- but there’s one thing he takes on faith. 

“You’re a good person, Archie,” he says.

Archie snorts. “Don’t.”

“You’re a good person, and Ms. Grundy -- or, whatever her name is -- can go all the fuck to hell for all I care.”

He can see, barely, the way that Archie’s mouth twists. “I keep telling people, _I_ started it. I wanted it. Her. All of it.”

Archie’s crying again. Jughead can hear it, quiet, and can see the way his chest hitches in the dark.

“Don’t,” Jughead says, “God, come here,” and Archie leans over, presses his face into Jughead’s shoulder, his free hand clutching at the thin fabric of the t-shirt he’d borrowed, twisting and pulling it down. His temple is hot against the bare skin of Jughead’s neck. All that bulk, twisted small to fit against Jughead’s frame.

They sit like that for a really long time.

“I’m sorry about the drive-in, Juggie,” Archie says, eventually. He’s soaked through Jughead’s shirt, so Jug can feel the words almost like they’re mouthed against his skin.

He swallows. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Archie says. “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

And that --

“You know I don’t expect you to keep apologizing for that, right?” Jughead says. “I’ll let you know if and when I need another apology. But we’re trying to be good. Aren’t we?”

“Yeah.”

Jughead nods. “So…”

There’s a barely-audible sniffle against his neck that he feels more than hears. “Then I’m sorry for -- for bringing _it_ up. You know. All that crap.”

Jughead likes to think of the world in terms of fiction. It’s easier to process, that way. It’s easier to think of something as a _tragic past_ , because all the greats have one -- if it happens to be a _tragic present_ , well, that makes life more difficult. He just doesn’t think about it too much. It would be _great_ if Archie could stop bringing it up.

“I’m sorry for not intervening,” he says, half deflection and half brutal honesty. Both are easier in the dark.

“I wouldn’t have listened.”

“I could have tried anyway.”

Archie uncurls, shifts back, and everything in Jughead protests at it. But he lifts his face to look Jughead in the eyes. “I don’t expect that from you. You’ve gotta know that. I don’t expect anything right now -- I _get_ why you’re, like. Distant. I get it.”

Jughead swallows. “I don’t want to be.”

There’s too many broken things in his life. In life, in general. And some things are set up to be broken -- kids from the South side, and kids with dreams too big for their small towns, and kids with too many questions and no answers to be found. They’re all just that little bit easier to break.

“You’re right,” he says. The words stick in his throat, resistant, but he pushes through because this is _Archie._ “I do have sympathy for hurt people. Because of -- everything.”

Archie looks at him, face pale and tight.

Jughead swallows. “That’s why I’m _here,_ Arch.”

He can see, in the dark, the way Archie’s head jerks to the side, like he wants to deny it but doesn’t know if he can. Archie, for all his many, many,  _many_ flaws, has always _tried_ to be honest.

This is the hardest part. He thinks, maybe, Archie senses it, because his fingers tighten around Jughead’s.

“I know a little something about adults hurting kids,” Jughead says. And he can’t take it back, after -- there’s no way to grab the words once they’re out, shove them hastily back in his mouth, swallow them despite all their sharp edges. This is why he doesn’t _say_ things. But, for Archie --

There’s a lot of things he’d do for Archie, that he might not do for anyone else. Even now.

“It wasn’t like that,” Archie says, but he doesn’t sound so sure.

“Yeah, Arch,” Jughead says. “It was. I’m sort of the local authority on that too.”

They’re quiet for a while longer -- Archie, staring into space, and Jughead, staring at Archie. Then Archie sighs.

“I just want to sleep.”

Jughead snorts despite himself. “Well, picking a fight with me was a _great_ way to accomplish that.”

Archie smiles, and digs his elbow into Jughead’s side half-heartedly. He hasn’t let go of Jughead’s hand.

“How long until school?” he says.

Jughead checks his phone. “Not enough hours,” he says. “Don’t think about it. I think this counts as _mitigating circumstance._ ”

“It’s too late for multisyllables,” Archie complains.

Jughead opens his mouth to reply -- but then Archie’s flopping down, and pulling him down with him, so they’re side by side, shoulders pressed together, hands still tangled.

“Uh,” Jughead says.

Archie flushes -- even in the dark, Jughead can tell. “Is this okay?”

It’s -- Jughead doesn’t know what it is. All he knows is that he can feel every place they’re touching, and the thin t-shirt and boxers he’d borrowed don’t feel like nearly enough. _What if he sees_ , he thinks, and then, _sees what?_

“Yeah, Arch,” he manages. “Whatever you need.”

It’s too honest. It’s too dark. Jughead is too aware of how narratives run wild in the dark -- secrets spilled out into the open, bodies pressed close together, hearts beating too fast. Archie pulls the covers over them, and Jughead thinks his lungs might implode with how hard he’s trying to keep his breathing steady. He wants to take his hand back, but doesn’t know how. It has a mind of its own; his thumb is tracing slow circles over the jut of Archie’s knuckles under the blankets.

The quiet lasts long enough that he thinks Archie has fallen asleep. He’s wrong again.

“I should have gone on that road trip,” Archie says, and Jughead twitches. “None of this would have happened if I’d just gone.”

Jughead swallows. The air feels thin; he wants to be a thousand miles away, and so much closer. All at once. He stares resolutely up at the ceiling, and says, “Because of Grundy?”

He hears the way Archie shifts onto his side, sheets rasping under him, and sees, out of the corner of his eye, the way Archie looks at him.

“Because of you,” Archie says.

Jughead’s eyes sting. “You have to stop bringing that up, man.”

“I was so -- so twisted up,” Archie says, and now it’s him squeezing Jughead’s hand, “and I still am, and you -- you were at the center of it. You always are -- so much I don’t even notice, sometimes.”

“So what,” Jughead says, raw, “What do you want me to do with that, Archie, okay, what do you expect me to _do_.”

“I don’t know,” Archie says, and falls silent.

“Me too,” Jughead says after a moment. “With you.”

Archie sighs, like something has gone loose inside of him. He shifts, and then his arm is wrapping around Jughead’s stomach, a warm weight. The tips of his fingers brush against Jughead’s hip, where his shirt rides up.

Jughead twists to look at him, shocked.

Archie’s eyes are dark, and the set of his mouth unsure. “Let’s just --” he says, “Jug, can we just --”

“Yeah,” Jughead says, voice cracking in the quiet. “Yeah, okay.”

“I don’t wanna think about it tonight. I want to think about anything else but that.”

“Okay.” Jughead’s free hand has found it’s way to Archie’s forearm, stretched across his stomach; it curls there, around the bend of Archie’s elbow. “You know those maps you can buy at the old gas station on Dogwood?”

“Yeah.”

“They sell ‘em just like that in every gas station in America. So what I’ve been thinking is, what if you drove in a straight line, down the coast, and bought one at each gas station you passed. They’d shift south an inch each time. And you could cut off that inch, and assemble them all together. Bring the road together piece by piece.”

Archie yawns. “Sounds… like a lot of work.”

“Worth it,” Jughead says. “If you keep going, you just -- you never fall off the map. You can glue together, one mile at a time, a map that can’t be fallen off of. Every inch of road accounted for.”

“You’d be king of the road,” Archie mumbles.

“ _We’d_ , Arch,” Jughead says. Archie tilts forward until his face presses to the soft part of Jughead’s shoulder. Jughead swallows. His voice is so quiet in the dark, like it barely exists -- like dust in the sunlight, never quite landing down. “And we could drive until the greens and greys we’re used to change and become something new. We could see what’s living beyond the edge of the map.”

His words are starting to slur.

“Sounds nice,” Archie says. “Think we could… still do it?”

Jughead blinks, eyes heavy. “Yeah, Arch. Why not.”

There’s a lot of reasons _why not_. None of them seem to matter now. Jughead closes his eyes; with no conscious effort on his part, his head tilts, so his cheek is pressed against Archie’s hair.

 _Like we’re ten years old again_ , he thinks distantly, but it’s not quite like that at all.

“I was scared,” Archie whispers against his shoulder.

He could be referring to a lot of things; he might very well be referring to all of them.

“I know,” Jughead whispers back. His eyes drift shut. He sleeps.

(The sun is high in the sky when he wakes, and his hand is still in Archie's.)

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> i DESPERATELY want to write betty/veronica but i have zero percent grasp on veronica's voice. if you have any recs that you think do her well, send them my way at wayonwayout.tumblr.com ok THNX <3


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